A run through devastated Fourmile Canyon: Finding home, finding peace

"Watch your footing," Melody Fairchild warned as we ran up the small flowing creek that used to be a trail in the hills west of town. "It is going to be slippery."

Indeed it was. Running in the rain Sunday morning was slippery and dangerous, as well as magnificent and awe-inspiring in the face of the power unleashed in this great flood of 2013.

Like most Boulder-area residents, I was transfixed by the rain that kept coming down and by the resulting destruction, not just of homes, cars and creekbeds, but of our feeling of stability and normalcy.

I had not been to my house in Fourmile Canyon since fleeing the rising waters Wednesday, and with the reports circulating of the people trapped in Lyons and Jamestown, and of trees, roads and houses being swallowed by the water, I had no idea what to expect.

Fourmile Canyon
(
Glen Delman
)

Friends had warned me to expect the worst. I had heard reports of a 17-foot "wall of water" coming down from Emerson Gulch, about eight miles northwest of my house. It was hurtling downstream, I was told in urgent email messages and phone calls, and would end, I was told, directly atop my place.

It seemed likely that my house was submerged under a sea of mud, cars and debris. In addition, I had not heard from my nearest neighbor since a Thursday email, and I wondered if he had gotten out, as well as other canyon neighbors, including University of Colorado track coach Mark Wetmore and former Fairview teacher and cross country coach Roger Briggs.

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I had been living in borrowed clothes since abandoning my house and had spent two days helping a friend battle a drainage ditch-turned-creek that overflowed its banks and flowed directly into her house. Like many of you, I gave no thought to being tired or hungry, only of getting water out of the house.

Living with friends -- no matter how nice they are -- while rain continues to fall, and your house and all of your possessions are possibly being swept away, is disconcerting. I was planning to interview marathon great Steve Jones, the running inductee for the Sept. 28 Boulder Sports Hall of Fame, but his basement in north Boulder was filled with water.

Mike Sandrock

Now, with my friend's house dried out and the ditch reinforced, my thoughts had turned back to Fourmile Canyon, and as I ran through the mist behind Fairchild, crossing newly formed creeks and past hidden waterfalls, I was feeling not anxiety or loss but gratitude.

Even with realizing that all the water, debris and even cars I had heard about could have buried my house, I felt fortunate to have a dry place to sleep, a truck that still started -- despite driving through 3 feet of water Wednesday night when I escaped the mountains -- and to be running strong uphill in these beautiful mountains.

As we ran through the rain Sunday, my heart went out to the families of the young couple who lost their lives early Thursday on Linden Avenue. I had seen and heard Fourmile Creek rise too rapidly in the past, and knew how quickly a flash flood could overwhelm anyone caught in it.

In their time of grieving, I speak for many in the running community in offering condolences to all who suffered losses in the flood.

On Saturday night, I had been at the wedding reception of a running friend, celebrating the marriage of two soulmates. That young couple caught in the flash flood on Linden will never have the chance to celebrate and to possibly grow old together.

Such were my thoughts as I ran alongside Fairchild's fiancé, Glen Delman, high above Boulder Canyon. We could see massive mudslides covering the creek path and parts of the asphalt road that had crumpled into the creek.

The run was beautiful, with new waterfalls, new creeks crashing down the hills. Pine trees stood green and tall in the mist.

"It smells like Oregon," said Fairchild, who won an NCAA track title at the University of Oregon after a stellar prep career at Boulder High School.

Fairchild grew up in Fourmile Canyon, and her Saturday blog post about checking on her childhood home was moving. She wrote: "Today, as I ran against the force of the water, I felt so small, and my long run to see the results of Mother Nature's power made me bow down to her in reverence, and with complete surrender. ... I went as far as I could safely go and then started climbing.

"I thought I was alone when I bumped into two search and rescue personnel who offered me water and told me that they are making sure there are no more people in the canyon, as there will be no way to get in or out for two days. I told them I was just going to see my old family home. They said: 'You don't want to.'"

When Fairchild "crested the rocky outcrop on the east wall of Four Mile Canyon" and saw the home she grew up in, it was "being pummeled by flood waters, necessarily abandoned by the family who is now raising their children there."

"Although I haven't lived there since 1991 ... to this day, 'our' HOME has been a source of strength and inspiration to me. Each time I choose to run up Boulder Canyon to enter Four Mile and scale Poorman Road to meetup with Sunshine canyon and descend back to Boulder, I am filled with an awesome energy which fuels my Dreams at 40, like it did when I was 12 years old."

The rain was coming down harder when we reached the house of Marianne and Roger Briggs. I was happy to see them answer the door.

"We are OK," Marianne Briggs said, adding that they did not have flooding inside the house. They were warm and dry, and they had each other.

Their subdivision road was open Saturday for a bit, Roger Briggs explained, but had been covered by mudslides again Sunday. He smiled and seemed resigned to another night cut off from Boulder.

Delman and I continued down the road. I was anxious to see if my house had survived. Many of my fellow Fourmile Canyon evacuees were spending time at the Trident Café in Boulder, sipping green tea and exchanging notes, and several had asked me to check on their places, as well as neighbors.

A small tractor slipped and slid its way through the mud, followed by a large four-wheel-drive truck, trying to clear a path. Coming down toward Fourmile, I caught a first glimpse of my house and the familiar cottonwoods; it was still standing!

I ran faster and crossed the road, sprinting down my driveway. The water had reached just up to the northeast corner of the house and somehow stopped just there. The small trees, grass and shrubs that had lined the 40 feet to the creek were gone, covered by deep mud and sand. The ground was completely flattened, and it looked as if the water had gone so fast it had not had a chance to pool but had rushed on to its rendezvous with Boulder Creek.

A feeling of exultation. Going inside, the floor was dry. A cut-open watermelon sat on the counter, along with some organic peaches from the farmers market. They were just ripe. I grabbed a bunch, put them in a plastic bag and went back out.

We ran over to the Boulder Mountain Lodge; the breadth and power of Fourmile Creek here was breathtaking, like something from a movie. It was wide, having rushed over its banks, knocking out the bridge at the lodge and forming new channels. Only the largest trees remained standing amidst the rushing, swirling brown water.

Picnic tables and chairs were wedged into the trees. Debris hurtled down the creek. The creek roared in a way it had not for more than 100 years.

The rain continued, and we ran toward town down Boulder Canyon. We had to run on the road; there is no creek path to run on anymore. Much of it is gone, swept downstream, or covered by deep mud. Boulder Canyon is a scene of devastation. Sheriff's cars roared past, and a city worker slowed to warn us of new flash-flood warnings.

Delman and I stopped to marvel at completely new canyons carved out of the south side of the cliffs. The water pipeline lay exposed in places, topped by fallen pine trees. The guard rail in several places hung over the creek, and halfway down the canyon the sound of the metal rails clanging against a large rock could be heard amidst the creek's roar.

Running down Boulder Canyon without traffic was eerie. Suddenly, a figure appeared ahead, lean, a backpack slung over a green poncho. It was head CU track coach Wetmore.

"What are you doing out here?" I asked.

"Getting groceries," he said. Just above his house, he told us, the road was completely washed away. With the canyon closed, he walked to town and back. The collegiate cross country season is a short one, and his runners need to be coached.

We continued on, and Delman warned me about falling rocks. There were several huge boulders on the path and several deep mudslides. Part of the highway slants noticeably toward the creek, and I walked on the other side, feeling the precariousness of the road. It was dangerous, and I was ready to get back to the Trident.

Back at the café, ultramarathoners Joe Grant and Anton Krupicka were sharing a table and stories. Grant lives in Gold Hill and had just gotten out. The road past Salina, it seems, is completely gone.

Krupicka told how an SUV ended up floating down his alley, but his place made it through unscathed.

Saying good-bye to Delman, I thanked him for the run.

"It was amazing how the (Fourmile) Creek was transformed into a raging river, after seeing it quiet for all these years," Delman said. "Hearing the roar of the river drown out all other sounds, seeing all the downed trees and pieces of homes coming down the creek ... It is spectacular, amazing and scary, all at the same time. And sad. Very sad."

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